On Tuesday we travelled out of Louisiana all of the way through Mississippi. We hadn’t seen a hill since Denver by the time we got through the Louisiana swamp and this continued all through Mississippi. Almost as soon as we crossed the border into Tennessee things started to look up, including the front of the bus, as the topography began to change.
While rolling through Mississippi we were driving over some of the best farmland on earth. Of course this part of the world was conducive to sugar cane and cotton plantations with all of the slavery connotations that implies. So what better way to eradicate these memories than by covering this excellent soil with solar panels and wind mills. We might starve to death but all of that renewable energy will ensure we’ll be able to keep warm when the sun’s out and cool when it’s windy. Oh, hang on…. Fortunately my usual disquiet on seeing these monstrosities was becalmed by a visit to the BB King museum and burial place in Indianola. I’m inspired to buy a black Gibson guitar like his and forget every chord I’ve ever learnt so i can learn to play like him.
So we’ve travelled on Highway 61 of Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited fame and where 61 crosses Highway 49 near Clarksdale Mississippi is the famous Robert Johnson crossroads where he sold his soul to the devil in return for devilishly good guitar talent (apparently) and a location made famous in many other songs. There are many claims on this famous crossroads as there are many claims on Robert’s actual burial site. What we are pretty sure of is that he made it into the 27 Club courtesy of a cuckolded husband who supposedly poisoned him (on my birthday but 17 years before my actual birth). That was in the fine print of his contract with the devil. Always read the fine print. Otis Redding, another member of the Memphis blues and soul royalty was even less lucky than Robert Johnson, only making it to 26 thanks to a plane crash.
So New Orleans is primarily jazz (Louis Armstrong is the Elvis of New Orleans) and blues but Memphis is blues and rock and roll courtesy of one Elvis Presley. There are others who claim to have “invented” the various genres and those like WC Handy who was the first to write down blues music he was listening to over a hundred years ago in the Mississippi delta. But Memphis is blues and Elvis which means visits to Beale Street and Graceland respectively.
Beale Street is to Memphis what Bourbon Street is to New Orleans but Beale is wider and significantly cleaner. They’re like a teenager’s bedroom, before and after Mum’s been in there to hose it out. But the music’s just as good in both. The CB and I were in Slinky O’Sullivan’s Irish bar and the music was being provided by a pianist who could play and sing anything. Two songs into his set he asked for requests and played them for the rest of the night. These guys and bands play for hours. None of this two hour, 16 song set kindergarten, namby tamby, Rolling Stones stuff for these marathoners. Anyway, our pianist mentioned he was asked to play a Metallica song the previous night. Not one to miss an opportunity, I asked him to play Metallica’s version of Whiskey In the Jar. An Irish drinking song in an Irish pub – what could be more appropriate. He did an admirable job but it was difficult to hear the two guitar parts over his piano and vocals.
The second night in Memphis we attended the Blues City Cafe and saw another excellent blues band fronted by a blind three piece suited black guy. What was additionally unusual about this guy is that he played the harmonica but like the Eagles who switch guitars every song because apparently one song puts them out of tune (they need to talk to Status Quo), he switched harmonicas almost every song. He had what appeared to be a customised bag of them – at least 7. I have never seen that. It could have been different harmonicas in different keys – I don’t know, but there you go.
Then it was on to Graceland. Of course those of you who have been there will know that the Graceland experience doesn’t just involve a house but also a combination mall/theme park/museum (with 8, count them, 8 gift shops) and a huge hotel, cutely called the Graceland Guesthouse. On first encountering this tourist behemoth which straddles Elvis Presley Boulevarde (obviously), the first word that springs to mind is “tacky”. The first complete thought that springs to mind once the full experience has been rationalised is that it’s a holy roller, evangelical, convention shrine, not to God but to Elvis, populated by slavish devotees who still worship him despite his dying 47 years ago on my birthday like Robert Johnson (86 years ago). I don’t know what it is about August 16th but it doesn’t like musicians. It didn’t spoil my birthday party because even though I can’t remember what music we were listening to, it certainly wasn’t Elvis.
The house, sorry, mansion is a bachelor’s paradise. There are man-caves everywhere, both inside and out. It’s a pity he had to share it with his grandmother, parents, wife and daughter. He did have an entourage however so I’m sure the expected shenanigans were got up to periodically.
Onward to Nashville.